


I am the truth

by gay outsider central (tyelperin)



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Implied Relationship, M/M, intronspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 03:26:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11199489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyelperin/pseuds/gay%20outsider%20central
Summary: "He opened his eyes, as black as a dream. Trying to speak, his only words only a scream," Corvo reads, and wonders.





	I am the truth

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Dishonored 2.

Corvo has been doing a lot of thinking since Emily got her throne back. She would laugh at him if she knew, mock how introspective he's getting in his old years. He can almost hear her voice, the laughter in it, see the mirth in her eyes. He wouldn't blame her. Corvo's never been one to ponder over the philosophical and the esoteric.

Back when he was following Delilah's steps, he found a song. About the Outsider and his death, no less. The myth has been ingrained in his mind for as long as he can remember: a boy, a beggar, taken from the streets and sacrificed to the Void to fulfill a prophecy and sate the ambition of men. Corvo never gave it much thought, and once he did meet the Outsider he assumed it was false.

Stories are told for a reason, and that one had its own. Pitty the deity, take him as one of your own kind. Paint him as a victim to try and spread his cult.

Corvo stares at the crinkled paper between his fingers, sitting on the roof of the palace. The sky is dark, and he can barely read the words. It doesn't matter. He knows them by heart.

And he thought that they were a lie, up until the Outsider showed him how he died. Back then, he was too focused on the task at hand to react. There was too much at stake for him. For Emily. But he can take the time to contemplate now. The Outsider never said that he was a boy when it happened, didn't mention what the song let transpire about his father, the death of his mother. He talked about it in a way that was almost detached.

It makes sense, when he has had four thousand years to move on. Or maybe he doesn't feel like they feel, maybe the Void is in him too. Corvo has seen flashes of emotion sometimes, but they could've been a trick of his own mind.

He sighs. It's late, he's tired, and he's thinking in circles. That's why he never ponders, leaves that to academics and those who enjoy the act of reflecting with no other purpose than the pleasure of mulling over things.

Corvo closes his eyes.

When he opens them, the Outsider is by his side. He's got the paper in his hand, and is humming the song staring up at the sky. Corvo looks around, assumes that he's dreaming or has been pulled into the Void, but it doesn't feel like that. It feels like he's still on the roof, wide awake, not a single hair traversing the Void.

The Outsider keeps on humming.

"Doesn't it bother you?" Corvo asks, and the Outsider pauses to look at him. He's read things by people who wax poetic about his eyes, has read about the fear they instill in the hearts of men and the galaxies they hold within. What he sees is less lyrical, yet he feels like the Outsider would be pleased by what he has to say. His eyes are black and shiny, clever, like a rat's.

The Outsider smiles slightly, only for a second, too fast to be sure that it's happened. He does look amused, overall.

"Why should the truth bother me, when it keeps the story alive in all the places that matter.  I'd rather they sing about this than paint me as a natural occurrence, linked to the birth of the universe, when I come from the gutter and am, ultimately, to pass."

Corvo doesn't fully understand. Isn't it dangerous, to have how he was created known? Won't others try to recreate it?

He asks that. The Outsider frowns.

"Some have tried, yes. To no avail. Should we discuss what lurks in the hearts of men that would kill a child for their own interests," the Outsider ponders, and it feels as if he's talking to himself. It's hard to know, with him, if he does have an opinion of his own. Maybe he wants Corvo to answer, maybe he's merely pulling his strings.

Corvo refuses to play along.

"How do they know, how you died?"

"Mythos is a living creature. I tell the story sometimes to those who seem fitting, in their dreams, and it spreads like wildfire. There are many iterations of it, some beautified and some crude enough to make a sailor faint. You have found one of the most faithful to what happened."

"Why do you tell them?"

He feels like he's going in circles again. What does he want to accomplish with this, with asking a god why he does the things he does? Corvo doesn't know. The Outsider, though, he looks down at the paper and smoothes it over his thigh with a hand. It reads tender, gentle, and Corvo feels like an intruder.

"Can you fault me, for wanting the truth in the streets? Some have tried the ritual, that much I can't deny. But to others it is a testament to the fact that no matter where one does come from, there is the potential to do great things. Despite how dire the situation, some good may come out of it. It paints me as a martyr, I'm not blind to that, but it holds hope."

Despite what Corvo had thought earlier, with him by his side now the Outsider feels painfully human in how he talks. No matter how freely the emotions flow, the Outsider delivers his words in a way that is still foreign. At odds with the intent, with what is being said.

It's confusing.

"I don't understand you."

The Outsider hands him the paper, and Corvo takes it with a drawn out sigh. He glances back at him, at his profile. Sharp lines in the dark. His black eyes are on the sky, but Corvo doesn't mind. They're unnerving, sometimes.

"Why, Corvo, would you seek to understand me? You took my mark without questioning it when it fit your purpose, when you could use it. You never showed any interest on me or my motivations. Have you never asked yourself why I marked you?" the Outsider turns, his eyes on Corvo. He frowns, and holds his gaze. "The world is full to the brim with people begging me to take an interest in them. They build shrines, carve charms with the bones of those they call leviathans for me. No matter how long they go without an answer, or how little I care, they won't stop hoping to get what you got. Have you never thought about your position?"

For all he's saying, he doesn't sound like he's gloating. He's uttering facts, and the question, if surprising, can only be answered honestly.

"I haven't. There was no need, was it? The power you gave me served its purpose, and that was it."

The Outsider smiles once more, a tight curve to his lips gone in a blink.

"Is it really that simple, I wonder. You have the power to make empires fall to their knees, Corvo. It would be easy. It could have happened, I've seen it, yet it didn't," his hand, when he touches Corvo's jaw, is cold. The Outsider's fingers trace his jawline up to his ear, then rest on the roof's tiles. "Those with power are often blind to consequences, and to the struggles of those around them. You never were one for charity. If Delilah hadn't targeted Emily she'd still be a part of me. Maybe worse. What stopped you from doing what others so easily did."

He likes to think that it is that simple, yet can't fully deny that what the Outsider says hasn't passed his mind. Corvo's a selfish man, razor sharp focus on tasks he deems of importance and paying little to no attention to the rest. He wonders if maybe he's too dim to use power in the ways the Outsider talks about. Maybe he lacks the smarts, the cunning. Maybe he just doesn't care.

 "My lack of charity is probably what stopped me," the Outsider seems pleased, as much as he can without as much as blinking. He stands, and Corvo stares at him from below. It's surprising, how little like a deity he looks. The Outsider is a man, even if a man that walks with the Void licking at his edges. A young man. With beady black eyes and large ears, the signs of starvation marring his features. Imperfect.

"You have always been fascinating. I see all there is to see, yet your quick admission of your own selfishness is quite refreshing. Most men wish to hide what they consider makes them impure," the Outsider's hand pushes his hair back. Corvo would like to think that maybe it's a gesture born of fondness. He won't assume. "Maybe you could spare some coin for those who sing that song next time you hear it on the streets."

The ghost of his touch remains as the Outsider disappears.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends death of the outsider is coming and im afraid


End file.
